Schadenfreude
by Armand Malfoy
Summary: Follow up to Lachrymose and Gloaming; Harry and Alarbus have been together three years with no sign of Snape.
1. Default Chapter

Schadenfreude

Part One: Xanadu

_AN: I hadn't intended there to be a third part to the Lachrymose/Gloaming story-line, but after I finished with Gloaming I got reviews requesting a third installation. I hope you enjoy it; it should be pretty straightforward. I'm sorry if chapters take longer; both my beta (the amazing Miss Morghaine) and I are extremely busy lately. Also the "ghost of your lies" line is lifted from Bright Eyes. _

_"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan  
A stately pleasure dome decree_

_Where Alph the sacred river ran_

_Through caverns measureless to man_

_Down to a sunless sea."___

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

I.

Once upon a time there was a boy who got everything he wanted.

Taken away.

And this boy, we'll call him Harry, had to fight his way through mud and blood and pain you can't imagine. Luckily, he couldn't either, and he arrived on the other side of this battle unscathed, only to realise that what he'd wanted all along had been the losses, the anguish, the fight. What he'd wanted all along had never been lost, but losing.

Am I making sense to you? Are you understanding what I say? It's four o'clock in the morning and I'm standing outside in the rain. I've got a suitcase of clothes and a cat at my feet, and I'm homeless for the second time now. The light in the window I've been watching goes out for the last time and I can't help but feel that things are easier this way.

So this boy Harry, he grew up to be a man, and he kept on trying to take back all the things he'd lost. And the more he looked backwards, and the harder he fought, and the tighter he grasped at the things he still had, the more he felt slipping further away. Until he woke up one morning living with a stranger and realised he'd lost himself.

The light goes out for the last time and I turn and walk away.

It had been the world's worst fight, and that's no exaggeration. It happened over dinner (potatoes and chicken; he cooked, I came home late). All the worst fights happen over meals.

He said: "Why don't you just tell me where you've been?"

I replied: "I told you. Out."

He said: "I can't believe you'd treat me like this."

I replied: "So what else is new?"

Half way through the argument, conducted in rational voices and without much emotion, he picked up a plate of potatoes and threw it at the wall behind my head. I spared a few seconds to watch the white food slide gracelessly down the wallpaper into shards of broken china.

He said: "I'm sorry."

I replied: "I don't care."

He says and I reply. He says and I reply. He says "I love you" and I reply "I love you too" and we hold hands and kiss on the train. He says "Are you too busy" and I reply "Not for you" and we sneak away for a few hours and make love and kiss on the mouth. He says "Maybe you should leave" and I reply with nothing. Three years of ask and receive and we've broken down to smashed plates and stained walls before my very eyes.

I've had few relationships. Correction: I've had two relationships. I've had Snape and I've had Al, and sometimes I don't know which was worse. At least with Snape I knew where I was coming from. I was fighting something then and he was fighting me back, and he was winning. With Al it felt like hurting a kitten again and again. It felt like I was always sliding out of his idea of who I was.

We were friends before we started, but maybe we should have been enemies. Maybe then our handful of flings would have amounted to something fantastic instead of this domestic nightmare.

Galatea meows and wraps herself around my legs, trying to attract my attention. I look down at her and smile. "Well," I say, "it's just you and me again girl." Yeah, I'm becoming one of those lonely sods who talk to their cats. Galatea blinks up at me without comprehension and claws at my trouser leg. "Come on," I sigh. "We'll get a hotel room or something."

The "or something" ends up being a suite in the most expensive hotel I can find. It's not like I'm strapped for cash and if I must sulk, I'd like to do so in style. And drunk. Very, very drunk, actually. The hotel concierge assures me this is no problem and has an assortment of beverages sent up to my room. I'm mourning three years of my life, so I spare no expense.

Around one in the morning, eyes shot with what's probably more alcohol than blood, I stagger to the bathroom and eye myself in the mirror. There's a razor in my suitcase and I fish it out, holding it in my hand loosely, unable to grasp the metal tightly enough. Galatea, purring softly near the air-conditioning vent, glares up at me through her slit pupils. I remember reading somewhere that a dying cat will purr from constancy, not from pleasure.

A helpful little voice in my head starts chanting, "slit _up_ the vein; not across!" I shiver. It would be so easy, flesh surrendering to cool metal with little resistance, I'm sure. I close my eyes and try to imagine that this isn't one of those permanent ends to temporary situations, one of those stupid things I've always been famous for, one of those things I'd regret if I did. I try to think of one person who would actually care, if I just sunk the razor into my arm and pulled it clean through to my armpit.

And my mind goes blank.

I've lost contact with everyone. I've lost ties with everyone. I've pulled further and further away, retreating a little more into myself and my secrets all the time. And now…now…

I can imagine Ron and Seamus and Alarbus eyeing one another uncomfortably at my funeral, saying things like, "he always rushed in" or "never thought about the consequences" or "no, it's not really your fault - it's no one's fault but his own…"

When did this happen to me? When did I start doing this to myself? I can feel the tears welling up behind my eyes, and I hate it that I always cry. When did I lose control of my life? My mind races from this moment backwards, from my birth forwards, and meets at a spot somewhere between.

Snape.

Not Snape three years ago, when he walked away from me forever. Not Snape the spring before that, when we betrayed each other and he slid out of my flat without a word and I let him go without protest. Not even Snape the day he went mad and saved my life.

The night before all that. I lost control of myself when I first let him touch me. And I've needed him ever since.

That's no good, I sigh. Who cares how this started? The thing is that it's happening, and I'm living it, and if I can't think of a really good reason not to sink the metal into my arm I won't be living it much longer. The white walls, white towels, clean tiles, cool sink…this is someplace I could kill myself. There's nothing holding me together at this moment, nothing holding me in place. I give a sharp, pained hiss as I feel the tip of the blade sink into my wrist, tears welling in my eyes again. There's nothing keeping me in place anymore and I can't breathe and I can't think and I can hear the razor hit the ground and someone screaming at me, strong arms around me and then dark black eyes and my world abruptly shuts off.

_"Harry?" Al taps on the door gently with his knuckles, even as he's stepping inside. "I saw you leave and I thought maybe-"_

_"I'm okay," I lie, offering a brittle smile. "I just needed…" something "to get away for a moment. You can go back." _

_He looks wounded for a moment that I'd even suggest it. Then he smiles back, clearly moving on. "That's alright; it was getting a bit tedious, wasn't it?" He sits down next to me on the couch, snuggling up to me and pulling my arm over his shoulders. "I'd much rather be here anyway." _

_I'm no good at this sort of thing. "Alar…" I begin, but he smiles, and puts a finger to my lips with a shake of his head. _

_"We'll just sit here," he says, cuddling closer to me again. "We'll just stay and be quiet, and you'll hold me and I'll keep you for a little bit longer." _

_I'll keep you for a little bit longer…_

I'm dreaming, because this has to be a dream. I open my eyes and I'm lying in bed. My limbs feel too heavy and my wrist hurts where I started to slice it open. When I shift I can feel thick bandages wrapped around said wrist. "What-" I start to ask, but then I raise my eyes and see HIM. In bed. With me.

He reaches out one graceful hand, running the tips of two fingers down my cheek, a small smirk playing at the edges of his lips. "I was wondering when you'd wake up," he whispers, leaning in until I can smell him (citrus, smoke, spice, Snape) and feel his warm breath misting on my skin. And then closer, and he's kissing me, mouth sinfully soft and tender. I gasp, and his tongue slides into my mouth briefly, flickering over my teeth before as he pulls away, his dark eyes burning into mine…

I'm dreaming, because when I blink I find myself crumpled on the bathroom floor, my wrist scabbed over and sore and a small spot of red caked into the once pristine tiles. Galatea meows, stepping over my legs haughtily and leaping soundlessly onto the counter where she proceeds to wash one delicate paw. I'm not sure I'll ever get up again.

The world has stopped spinning by the time I make it to the bed. The sky outside is an angry red sunrise and I pull the curtains across the view and crawl under the covers and flick on the television. There's some music video station featuring a biography on Britney Spears. (Spear Britney, my mind offers tritely.) They've just gotten to the part about her drunken suicide attempt back in '06 (irony, anyone?), when I become distinctly aware of a tingling feeling starting in my wounded left arm and spreading rapidly throughout my torso.

"Hey!" I protest, alarmed to feel the sensation spreading down through my legs and feet. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it doesn't really feel like something I would volunteer to have done unto me. It feels a little like apparating, I realise, but decidedly more creepy. Actually it feels a _lot_ like apparating, especially when the room around me starts to blur at the corners and I start to panic.

"What the fuck?" I try to say, but although my mouth forms dutifully around the syllables no sound comes out. I try for one more silent scream as the room vanishes, or I vanish from the room, and a new one takes its place.

I blink, looking around at the new scenery in a daze. It's mostly white marble, pillars, stairs, elegance. There's a lush green lawn in front of me, blue skies and easy sunlight spilling over it with a blazing heat. I am so not in England. The slightly warm stone against my bare feet is a clear indication of that, and there's something dreamlike and familiar about the whole place.

"Excellent," says a low voice to my left, and I whip my head round to see him. Black eyes and dark hair and he still looks young, but in a different way. I must be staring with a very curious expression, because he smiles slightly and raises a hand to brush a lock of hair from his face. "I took the glamour off," he explains. "There didn't seem to be much point anymore."

I nod, open-mouthed. He looks like this? He really looks like _this_? He's lost the insolent beauty of youth, but what he's gained is…infinitely more appealing. The kind of charm that only comes with aging very, _very_ well. His eyes sparkle as he steps closer to me. "You don't…mind, do you?" He raises a dark eyebrow.

I shake my head, mouth dry. "You look good," I manage to croak. Really, really good. "I never realised you were…" beautiful. I cough. "Um…should I be wondering why I'm here?" Or where here is. It occurs to me to think that maybe I'm dead. Maybe I did manage to off myself and this is Valhalla. Bung-o.

He's smirking pleasantly down at me. "What do you think of what I've done with the place?"

"Huh?" I reply, ever articulate. I glance around.

He chuckles. "Don't tell me you don't recognize it. I haven't done that good of a job. Not yet, anyway. But, I don't know," he continues, stepping away and running a finger over one marble column. "It used to be grand. It could be grand again. I could…fix it…" he trails off, burning eyes fixed upon me again. His gaze drops, suddenly, and he carries on talking as if nothing had stopped him. "I'm especially fond of all the marble. It's so regal, don't you think? It conveys such opulence while, at the same time, remaining classical and austere. I never had things like this, growing up. I had my name, and my blood, but it didn't equate to…this."

He turns to me again, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Oh come on, Harry. Don't you recognize Malfoy Manor?"

II

It figured. Of course that's where I am. Snape explains it all with a smile playing around his mouth as he takes me on a tour of the renovated grounds. "The Malfoy line ended with Draco," he says without much feeling. "Most of the wizards they associated with have been similarly terminated." A wry smirk. "Narcissa was virtually friendless, a lonely anchoress encased in her decaying splendor."

He gives a dramatic sigh and leads me into the kitchen where a few frightened looking house elves dart out of our way and hurry about business. "After the business with you and Mexico and saving the world from total annihilation," I wonder how he can dismiss saving the world so easily, not to mention our affair, "Arienette and I parted ways." His eyes darken for a moment, and I can't help feeling sort of delighted, an uncomfortable warmth spreading through my stomach. "I decided to come pay a visit to Narcissa and, uh, thank her for all she'd done.

"I must say, I honestly expected her to throw me out, if she ever bothered letting me in. But she just went about mooning, floating in and out of the courtyard and lingering on the staircase and being generally asinine." He rolls his eyes. "You know how she could be. Ever dramatic, that girl. Not that I can blame her; she grew up with the Malfoys for Christ's sake."

He breaks off abruptly, almost as if he's given away too much, and I turn to see what's stopped him. If this is going to be another round of Snape's Secrets I think I'll pass. But he's pulling a cigarette out of a silver case and lighting it, taking a shaky inhalation before continuing. "Well, it didn't take long to figure out that she just wanted a little…company." His eyes sparkle menacingly. "I figured, what the hell? Why not stick around? I had nowhere to go so I stayed. After awhile I started going out more, traveling again, and returning every month or so to touch basis and make sure she was as I'd left her.

"Last year I came back and found she'd drawn up a will, stating that I would receive everything if she were to die. Of course, that was ridiculous. What would I do with it? I couldn't possibly access it. But she'd set up enough wards and guards on the documents that no legal actions would be necessary. It would all just pass from her to me. And…then she died."

"_What_?" I interrupt. "How?"

"Well," he says, thoughtfully tapping his ash into a convenient urn. "I'm not entirely sure. She just wasted away."

"People don't just die," I point out bitterly.

"Some do," he says. "Some do just that. Narcissa did. She made her will and then she went out into the garden." He raises a dark eyebrow. "I suppose it all became too much for her to deal with."

"Then she killed herself."

"No," he says thoughtfully. "More like she just decided not to live."

I make a displeased, unbelieving noise, but drop the subject. I can tell it'll get us nowhere. "Okay," I say. "So Narcissa died and you and Arienette broke up and you've just been living here and redecorating for the past twelve months?"

"Thirteen," he says, taking a relaxed drag and blowing the smoke toward my face. I grimace. "And yes. It's safer here. No one comes looking."

That's for sure, I think. The Ministry declared Snape a lost cause after the last round. He's on the Most Wanted Wizards List, in the spot formerly occupied by my godfather, but he's as good as free.

"Of course," he continues. "I can't imagine it'll remain safe here forever. People stumble in, now and then. The wards are difficult to keep up on a place this big. And I imagine someone will come looking for you. After all, the last time you mysteriously vanished it was my doing; they'll expect it again. Now that you're here you can help me strengthen the wards. Our combined magic ought to-"

"Hold up," I interrupt. "You're talking as if you expect me to stay here. I have a life outside of you, Snape. I was getting on just fine without you. Why would I stay here and help you choose curtains and wallpaper for the rest of my life?"

"Getting on just fine, were you?" He frowns and opens the door to the courtyard garden, motioning me to go on with the tour. "Suicide has never been a sign of staggering happiness, Harry."

I open my mouth to retort that I was drunk, but the sight of the garden steals my breath. It's beautiful. I remember being here last time, in this eternal summer, with the fountain and statues and overgrown vines…all in disrepair. Now…. It looks like paradise. Everything is brighter than the normal world, colours leaping out of flowers and the green of leaves and grasses a cool, luxurious verdant. I want to lay down on it, spread out my arms and stare at the sky. The fountain is running, soft sprays of crystalline water arching into the basin. I run my fingers over a cleaned Grecian statue and breathe deeply, for what seems like the first time in months.

"Why would you leave?" he purrs in my ear.

Things are different between us now. In the past it had always been an uncomfortable alliance. He was always pressing for familiarity, for farce, for devotion and God knows what else but he was asking too much. Now it just feels like he's offering. I take his hand and he leads me through the house, shows me the grounds, talking in a subdued tone of his plans and his stories. I don't feel like turning him away anymore.

He ends the tour outside the door to my new room. "I'm just down the hall," he motions vaguely with his head. I'm starting to wonder if maybe the show he put up last time and the declarations of love weren't all part of his elaborate mind fuck. He's been friendly, but nothing I would call outright seductive. "There are some clothes in your room; you can see which ones fit and which don't. If you like you can transfigure some; it shouldn't be beyond you illustrious skill," he smirks, and the trace of sarcasm is almost comforting.

"See you at dinner," he says, and brushes a quick kiss over my cheek before vanishing down the hall.

The clothes are quite the way I remember them; elaborate, elegant, old fashioned and fading. I fix up a few patches with a bit of magic and brush off the dust and find a plain black suit. It looks muggle, but the sort of muggle that only a wizard would wear, probably under robes. But Snape's been showing me around in black trousers and a red dress shirt, so I guess muggle is the style he's going for. I'm certainly used to it by this point, and I pull on the suit without much thought. There are snakes on each of the silver buttons, carefully engraved and moving in sinuous, unceasing patterns. Death Eater finery, I smirk, is something a boy could get used to.

I'm examining my reflection in the mirror and wondering if maybe this is a bit overdone for the warmth of spring, when a sharp hiss at my feet startles me. I take a quick step backwards before I see Galatea glaring up at me accusingly. "Oh," I breathe. Snape must have brought her here. "Hey," I crouch down and offer her my hand, petting her sleek black fur until her eyes slit with pleasure and she begins to vibrate. "Good to see you too," I smile.

I glance at the pocket watch I found in the pocket of the suit (similarly inlaid with a pair of moving snakes). It's already six-ten, and my stomach growls angrily at me. I remember with a pang that my last meal (not counting the drinking binge) was a ruined plate of potatoes. Dinner sounds very appealing all of a sudden, and I feel surprisingly comfortable in my clothes and surroundings as I head down the stairs toward the dining room.

The house may be dramatically refurbished, but it's still the same place, and it brings back a clawing familiarity to walk around in it. I run my fingers over the stair rail and try to think about the last time I was here. Had I been happy? Happier than I had been with Alarbus? The memories taste like cold ashes and stale bread. I can admit, grudgingly, that I wasn't miserable, but the fact of it still feels like filth.

The buttons on my suit are hissing softly, but I can't tell what they're saying. I catch little bits of phrases, mostly remarking on their new wearer (me) and the decorations (nice) and how nice it is to be out of the closet (ha). It's almost comforting, and I think about hissing back, but they might stop being so frank, and it's nice to hear the things they don't think I can understand. Besides, how crazy would I look standing here conversing with my buttons?

"Harry," Snape's voice is meltingly warm and achingly close. I turn to see him standing by the living room door. He swallows notably and then clear his throat. "Please, have a seat." He flashes me that alarming smile, pulling out my chair with chivalric intents.

"You look good," he says, as a house elf scurries out with a plate full of food. "The suit…it's a nice fit." He takes a long moment to pour himself a glass of wine. "I trust your room meets your needs?

"And then some," I say, picking up a roll of bread. God, the food smells exquisite. "But I can't help wondering what your plans are."

He looks hurt. "Plans? Why, Harry, I thought you'd appreciate a change of scenery. You can always go home, if you like."

"Can I?" I snort. "I haven't got a home."

He arches an eyebrow and passes the pepper. "This is your home," he says simply, and I'm struck with the fact that it's true. "Would you pass the butter?"

Dinner ends and we sit, in comfortable silence, on the front lawn. He's drinking red wine and I'm watching the stars and enjoying the coolness of the grass making imprints on my arm. It's been nearly ten minutes before he says, "Do you want anything? I could summon you some," he grits his teeth, "coffee, if you like."

I can't help smiling. "Don't bother," I say lightly. "I've cut back to a cup a day." Alarbus had really been quite horrified when he'd found out I drank so much of the stuff, and rather insistent that I either quit on my own or seek help. I roll my eyes at the memory, and I'm surprised it doesn't hurt to think of him. It feels like such a long time ago already. "Maybe in the morning," I add, breaking the long pause.

"Mmm," he finishes the wine in a final drink and sets the glass on the ground to his right. "That's good," he remarks. "I was worried about you, last time."

"I know," I reply bitterly. "Didn't Arienette manage to assuage your doubts after you left me?"

If he catches the anger in my voice, which I suspect he does, he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, "I had her stop watching you," he quietly rejoins. "I said I was leaving and I meant it completely. I wasn't going to come rushing back to you because you drank to much coffee."

"Then why did you come back?" I can't help blurting it out. I don't really want to know; his reasons have never made sense, but I have to continue now. "I mean, why did you…why did you bring me here? And…that night…how did you know? You said…"

"I know what I said," he snaps. "It's not important." He stops talking, clearly finished with the topic, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or not. I don't think I could take anymore secrets right now. Anymore nasty surprises. He's always known when I was in trouble, ever since I was in school. _Saving you is my addiction_. Hadn't he said something like that once? I shake the thought from my head.

I'm still trying to force my thoughts into silence when he leans over, brushing my jaw with the back of his hand, and kisses me. For a moment I can't move. It's been so long since anyone kissed me like this, like I'm the only important thing in their life, like I'm not an inconvenience, like they _need me_ more than anything. And then I'm kissing him back exactly the same, my hands tangling blindly in his hair as he pushes me back into the grass.

I capture his tongue, groaning, and bite lightly. It's so much - almost too much - but it's not nearly enough. His lips are soft but demanding against mine, tongue sandpaper and spit as he attempts to lick the back of my throat. It feels like he's got that tongue in my brain, and I moan again, arching against him blindly and forcing my tongue into his mouth.

And then he's gone. I'm holding nothing, he's standing beside me, and the bruised feeling in my lips is nothing compared to the bruises in my heart. "What-" I start to ask.

"Good night Harry," he says, breathing a little raggedly. "I'll see you."

Exit the Snape.

III

I wake up the next morning feeling well rested and relaxed. The sunlight is spilling in through the window, turning everything a buttery yellow colour that is somehow not nauseating. Snape, I think with a sigh, what were you doing in potions? You should have been an interior decorator.

The thought makes me snicker, but then I remember the night before and the kiss on the lawn. What kind of game is he playing at anyway? He wants me, I know he does, he always has before. He _has _to. Why else would he have brought me here? He wouldn't just string me along, I know, it's not his style.

Then again, his style has dramatically changed since I knew him back in school, and a few weeks saving the world doesn't really afford a chance to get to know a person. He confuses me. It seems like there are always more and more questions. Back when I was young it was, "Why did you join the Death Eaters; why did you leave; why are you such a bastard; was your family rich; why do you teach" and similar inquiries that now seem to have lost all their importance. Then in the summer of 2003 it was all, "Where have you been; where are you going; who is Arienette; why did you kill them; what's happened to you; why did you do it to me?" A tad more relevant but equally unanswered.

And the last time we saw each other…the last time it felt like I was getting some answers, if not from him than from the women keeping us company. I knew secrets, things I never told to anyone. It wasn't enough. He was blocking out the more important questions I'd had with answers to the smaller ones, playing a game of chess where he sacrificed his pawns to detain my higher pieces.

I take a deep breath. Maybe, I think, life would be easier without those questions. Maybe the truth will be revealed in time. Maybe, as I once surmised, there is no truth at all to him, only the latest lie. Either way, his life is beautiful, and I want to be a part of it. I can't deny that any more than I can deny how miserable I am without him.

He wants me, I tell myself as I slide into a cream coloured shirt and white trousers, trying not to think of their former owners. He wants me, and eventually he'll make his move and we'll be back to normal.

It's a week since I first woke up in Malfoy Manor, and he still hasn't laid a finger on me, beyond soft, almost accidental caresses. There's something perverse about the way he touches me, like it's all innocence to him but to me…I shiver. Only Snape, I muse, only Snape could kidnap me, kiss me, and make _me_ feel like the perverted one.

He doesn't even kiss me anymore, I think bitterly. Is he purposely sending mixed signals to drive me insane, or is he really not interested? I remember Arienette saying they weren't lovers, although he treated her like they were and kissed her with tongue in our motel room. Does he think I'll resign myself to being his latest oddity? That I'll follow him about until he chooses to discard me?

My skin feels too hot, just thinking about it, and he smiles at me over the chessboard we're sitting at. "Check mate," he says, moving his queen, the last remaining piece besides his king.

I stare in amazement as he stands, chuckling lightly. "How did you…you've only got two pieces!"

"Really Harry," he says with a smile, "it's necessary to make sacrifices. The game isn't decided by the amount of pieces a player holds."

I hate playing chess with Snape. He plays like a madman, making frantic, apparently careless moves that lose him most of his important pieces in moments. And just when it looks like it'll be an easy thing to move in and capture his king he changes in some indescribable way and his moves, still unrefined and effortless, take on a trickery that prevents his defeat. I can beat him at checkers though, so it's not a total loss.

That's how our time is spent, you see, playing board games. Breakfast, coffee, a walk in the gardens, a book by the window, the hours dwindling into darkness until we're sitting by the fire after supper playing games and conversing. By midnight he's always ready to turn in, finishing his glass of wine or scotch or whatever, and offering a hand to help me to my feet.

_This is how we sleep: I, with my head on his chest, he, with his arm around my shoulders and his other hand clasped in mine resting over my heart, and my free hand twisted lazily in his dark curls. We sleep close, so that we share the same air, the same warmth, the same dreams. _

_This is a dream. _

_He will not be here when I open my eyes, and he will not be here when I go down to breakfast, and he will not be here no matter what I do. He is gone. These are facts. I am unaffected. _

_This is how we kiss: His hands frame my face gently and his mouth opens to suck me inside, my hands on his hips, his scent in my brain. We kiss like lovers because we are lovers - we are easily defined. He smiles against my mouth before he pulls back, his hands sliding to my shoulders as he sighs contentedly. We kiss the way we love; tentatively, desperately, with the pretense of perfection. _

_I am holding onto this dream with both hands and my teeth, because when I open my eyes nothing will be so sure as that again. Nothing will be so comforting as his hand on my chest and his teeth in my brain. Nothing will be simple again, when I wake up and find that I've lost him forever. I keep losing him, every night, dreaming of the things I can never get back. _

_Before I open my eyes he smiles and says, "I think I love you." _

_I reply, "I know." _

He's learned to make my coffee the way I like it, tell the house elves I want cinnamon rolls for breakfast even though they're too sweet for him. He knows the time of day when I most like to walk through the garden, and all my favourite places in the house. He's discovered all the words that will make me turn away or flinch. And he's stopped saying them.

It's not trust or love, but I'm starting to notice things about him that leave me perplexed. He walks through the house silent, bare-footed; his tan cotton pants swishing slightly round his ankles. He wears colours. He wears white. He looks really damn good.

And he never lays a finger on me, almost as if he's afraid of breaking some rule. As if there are any rules left to break. I catch him staring, a couple times, passion _burning_ his eyes to black cinders as he examines me. And then…nothing. No matter what I do.

"Touch me," I breathe to the walls, half hoping he'll hear me somehow. "Or I'll go mad."

"Tell me the truth!" I demand of him one day. He's sitting on the sunny lawn, a pair of Muggle headphones draped ridiculously over his hair as he pours over a leather bound book. He looks up without animosity, dark eyes easy and careless. I feel like I'm breathing mercury, and my mouth feels too dry as I lick my lips. "Please," I whisper, "Tell me the truth."

"My kind of truth is just the ghost of my lies," he says, and smiles disarmingly up at me.

That's something he does a lot of lately; smiles. For no reason at all sometimes, he'll just turn to me with the frankest of smiles. I guess he's happy, but I can't see why or how. He's never been the happy sort, and now he's flashing that slow, graceful smile like he can't help himself. It puts an end to every argument, to see him look at me like that. "How are you doing this?" I ask him, because there's no point in asking him Why.

"Magic," he sighs, and rolls onto his back, gazing up at me with that peaceful expression. Sometimes I have to look twice, just to make sure he's not using glamour; he looks so young.

And more and more, I'm coming to believe that the man _is_ magic. He's not magical, the way I am; he is pure magic. And he's utterly mad. And I'm in love with him, and there's nothing to be done, one way or the other, as I climb the stairs alone after a game of chess he won and retreat to my bedroom and fall asleep confused and content.

The clock in the corner of the room ticks the careful minutes away, and I can just read the numbers by the moonlight streaming through my open window. One o'clock. I can't sleep and I feel like the old days, when I drank so much caffeine and could never sleep more than three hours. I ache for a Muggle television to soothe the twitch beneath my skin.

Silently, shaking off the covers, I stand and slip to the door, resting my head against the cool wood. There's a whole world out there for me, and I'm locked away in here, pretending I know what's going on. Pretending I don't care. I open the door and take a few uncertain steps in the direction of his bedroom. I try to keep my footsteps as silent as his, the sound sinking into the carpet. His door slides open without magic, and I slide slip inside, quietly shutting it behind me.

He looks like he's asleep and I step carefully toward him, breath held in the silence of the night. He doesn't move, except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. The corner of his duvet is flicked back, careless, as though he expects me. I wonder if it's like that every night. I move like I'm in a dream, to the edge of his bed, slipping under the covers to snuggle against him, pressing kisses onto his bare shoulder.

He stirs. "Harry?" he asks, voice muffled by the bedclothes and pillows.

"Just pretend it's a dream," I tell him, and he rolls onto his back, scrutinizing me with eyes that betray his alertness. He was never asleep. I gasp, drawing back for a moment, but he's got my wrists caught and he pulls me back to him, his mouth covering mine.

And dear God, it takes every ounce of my will power not to break down right then, give way in a trembling, twitching mass of desire. He undoes me, completely. There is something to be said for bedroom decorum, however, and I make the necessary effort and manage to kiss him back with only a hint of a whimper against his incessant tongue.

He tears away, breathing raggedly and staring into my face. "Tell me this is what you want," he demands, and I can only nod. That must be enough for him though, because his mouth is rapidly resuming its former position and his tongue is laving against the roof of my mouth like he's trying to lick into my brain. His hand traces a heavy line down the side of my body to my hip, pulling me closer until I'm flush against him, rubbing and crying out against his mouth in desperation.

He sighs, moving to my neck languidly. "Tell me what you want, Harry," he breathes, and I groan at the sound of my name - _my_ name - on those lips, in that voice. "Tell me and I'll give you anything you can possibly say."

"Oh fuck," I gasp, his teeth scraping over my left nipple. "God, please…"

He chuckles, and I can feel the vibrations in my sternum. "Not very articulate, are you?"

And I'm about to get less so.

He kisses my shoulder, afterwards, lazy sweat slicked and gorgeous as he stretches out beside me. His yawn is the wide mouthed gape of a jungle cat's, relaxed but inherently dangerous, like the muscles sliding under his ivory-white skin. The slink of those tight muscles when I run my fingers up his spine. I sigh and make the effort needed to let my shoulders drop in repose.

Those bright eyes are turned on me, suddenly, and it occurs to me to wonder how anything so black could possibly be bright. But they are. Shining like stones in shallow water. He brushes his hand across my jaw, looking at me critically, calmly, calculating. "Do you still cry?" he asks, presently.

"Mm, what?" I manage.

"Cry. You used to cry."

I almost deny it, but he doesn't sound insulting. So I shrug. "Dunno," I say. "I didn't cry when Al threw the supper at my head."

"No," Snape agrees, eyes still boring into mine. "But then, you never really cared about him."

"Whatever," I reply, threading my hands into his hair and pulling him up for a kiss. Oddly enough, he doesn't press the matter, just kisses me back.

"I don't like it when you cry," he says, when he pulls back. "I used to. But I don't anymore."

"Oh," I say, and then think because there ought to be something else to say to that. "Oh," I say again, because there isn't.

"I want you to be happy," he confides, voice low and velvety as his tongue snakes over my glistening skin. He traces wet patterns over my clavicle. "I want you to be happy with me."

"I am," I reply, petting his hair distractedly. "Or I will be. I love you," I say.

"You're surrendering before the fight, Potter," he mumbles against my neck, and I smile.

"You love me too," I remark, and he kisses me until I stop talking.


	2. Lethe

Schadenfreude 

Part Two: Lethe

"_No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist_

_Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;_

_Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd_

_By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine"_

_John Keats _

I.

Coffee. I remember the taste of coffee used to stay in my mouth all day long. Even when I woke up in the morning I could feel it clinging to my gums in the places I hadn't managed to scrub hard enough the night before. And no matter what I ate, no matter what I drank, I could always taste it in the back of my throat. Every kiss was coffee, and I'd curl up around Alarbus after another coffee flavoured fuck.

I suppose I should thank Alarbus for getting me off the stuff. When Severus kisses me now I can taste him, his tongue, that warm and subtle taste of another person's mouth, combined with the unique, almost citrus flavour of his lips. I want to curl up in the taste of him, and I go through the day with his taste in my mouth.

"This won't always be so easy," he predicts over the sandwiches we're eating for lunch. It's weird to see him sitting on the grass, criss-cross in the summer sunlight, delicately chewing on an ordinary sandwich. Like he's an ordinary person. "Things will get harder."

"I know," I say, but I really don't. Things have been hard, and they're easier now. I deserve this. This is the end of all our subterfuge and madness. "We'll manage."

"You _don't_ know," he informs me, setting his food down on a plate and taking a cat-like lick at his fingers. "You can't even begin to imagine."

_So tell me,_ I almost say, but discover, quite suddenly, that I don't want to know. I don't want to find out. I want it always to be him and me and green grass, white marble, my back to the ground and the routine slipping into shadowed fucks on the lawn, the terrace, his bed, my bed, invisible hands preparing succulent food as we slide through sunlit days in gardens that never age. I want life to go on like this forever, without consequences. I can't imagine why it shouldn't.

Snape says, "Things are going to change."

Says, "Every sunny day is a little closer to the storm."

"Nothing gold can stay."

I go yeah, sure, whatever, and roll onto my stomach, staring idly across the lawn and ignoring his dark presence beside me. In a few minutes he lays back beside me, staring up at the sky, his breathing slowing and leveling out into the steady inhalations of sleep. I stare across the heated grass toward the circle drive at the foyer of Malfoy Manor. There's a haze over my vision, like a mirage, and maybe that's why I don't notice the figure that's picking its careful way towards us across the stone and grass. A blot against the sun. I raise my head and watch it coming.

"There's someone here," I say. Severus doesn't react. I turn and shake his shoulder until his eyelids flutter open. "Snape, look."

His eyes follow the line of my finger and his whole body stiffens under my hand.

"Go inside," he says, voice guarded.

"Who - "

"I don't know." His eyes are narrowed at the approaching figure. "Go inside," he repeats. "Now."

Unthinking, I stumble to my feet and across the lawn, pulling the door shut behind me and closing the curtains for good measure. I put up the wards, but leave the deadbolt unturned. Wand in hand, I sit on the bottom stair, facing the doorway, and wait. And wait. And wait.

There's no sound from outside, and the curtains obscure what might be taking place. I'm an idiot for obeying him, I decide. I'm as powerful a wizard as Severus is; if he's in some sort of trouble…if he needs me…

It's really only five minutes of hysterical waiting, but it feels like an hour. The door inches open and he breezes in, assessing my raised wand and shaky hand with an arched eyebrow before going into the kitchen. The blood on his hands drips onto marble floor, leaving a trail as he moves from place to place. 

"What happened?" No answer but the sound of running water. I follow him into the kitchen and he's standing at the sink, hands sunk in soapy water. "Who was it?"

"Some Muggle. Sale's person or something. Wanted to sell us insurance." He snorts. "Definitely won't be coming back."

I stare, incredulous. "What happened?"

"What's it look like?"

"You…_killed_…a salesman?"

He gives me a look that says that should be pretty damn obvious, bloody hands and all. "_Why?_"

"Harry," he sighs. "You knew this about me already."

"I knew you killed people who got in your way! What did he do? He didn't even know who we are!" I'm aware of my voice getting louder, louder, my face flushing, hysterical. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "You didn't have to kill him. He wouldn't have told anyone."

"He wouldn't have known any better than to," Snape replies. "We can't risk it. If the ministry gets word of us we're done for. Or rather, I'm done for."

I snort. "You think they'd let me off after running off to live with you?"

One black eyebrow arches perfectly. "Running off? I kidnapped you."

"No you didn't," I protest. "I could leave if I wanted."

"It doesn't change the fact that I brought you here without your consent," he says. "And if they find us here, it'll be easy for you to blame me. If we _are_ found out, all you have to do is cry and look good, and you'll be carried home on a pedestal."

There's Snape for you. Always looking out for my best interest. "What about you?" I ask. "You don't seem to have this so well planned out after all. After I betray you what do you do?"

"Die," he says, as casually and as matter of fact as if I'd asked him about the weather. "I get what passes for a fair trial and then I die."

This is too much. While I'm spluttering my indignation he finishes scrubbing the drying blood from his knuckles and towels off his hands, inspecting his nails with an accusatory glare. "That's the thing about blood," he sighs, picking up a nail scrubber and setting to work. "If you don't get it off at once it stays forever. And it can't be healthy. I swear, I will never take up nail biting; all the awful things I touch it's amazing I'm not a leper by now…"

I gape. Snape is making feverish small talk about hygiene. I'm not sure which aspect of this scenario is the weirdest; Snape being chatty, or the unnecessary violence.

He must notice me staring, because he brings his tirade to an abrupt end and fixes me with a puzzled look. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?" he asks, almost gently. "You know I would never hurt you."

My mind throws up the memory of my broken nose, but I shake it off. "Just the same," my voice shivers, "I'd feel a bit more comfortable if you weren't a psychotic killer."

He rolls his eyes. He actually rolls his eyes. As if that's an appropriate rebuttal. "You act like I just kill anyone and everyone, Harry," he remarks, turning back to his nails.

"No offense," I grit. "But it does kind of seem that way."

"But darling, that's just not true," he mock pouts for a moment before breaking into that trademark smirk, then lets all expression drop from his face. "Oh, alright, so it's not a...selective…process," he sighs. "Still. I know my history is against me, but I promise, from now on, I won't kill anyone unless I really, really have to."

There's something very, very unusual about this conversation.

"Death Eater's honour," he swears, smirk fighting his poker face.

I shake my head, still wide-eyed in disbelief. This really cannot be happening. "I'm-"

"If you say 'leaving,' Potter, so help me God it'll be the last time you see me again." Something hard about his jaw stops me from snapping back that that's exactly what I want.

"Going upstairs," I finish, warily, casting one glance over my shoulder as I move toward the stairs.

_We're in Mexico. There is precious little time for romance. The dark hallway before we emerge from our underground prison, blinking in the soft light as Snape tears apart another enemy…this is before that. My mind is blinking on and off like a radio losing reception. He stops, turns, forces me against the wall with his body. His hands, slick with blood, never touch me. _

"_When we get out of here I'm leaving," he says, eyes flashing. _

"_If you leave," I growl back at him, "I swear to God it'll be the last time you ever see me you git." _

"_I'm leaving," he insists, and then his mouth is on mine, and everything is turning black and I'm wondering, wondering, wondering why I can't remember anything that's just been said and if maybe it's a stray memory charm or just the stress but the light is filtering through and he's black against white and he's dark against light and his hands are wrenching screams and I sink into the corner. And this is too much, too much…_

"Harry."

I groan, rolling over and pulling the duvet over my head. I don't want to be awake. "Harry, I know you're conscious." His warm breath ghosts over my jaw. "Please…"

I open one eye a crack, just enough to see his dark hair hanging over me. "Mmm?" I manage. I don't quite trust my voice right now.

He nuzzles his nose against my ear, nothing if not penitent. "I'm sorry." The moist, warm air from his mouth on my skin sends a sharp spiking shiver down my spine and I roll onto my side, wrapping my arms around his neck and nuzzling back, clinging to him. And pray that he'll just leave it at that. "I'm sorry."

When he kisses me I know nothing is fixed. It's in his character to kill, and it has been since before I was born. As a creature he is beyond morality. He's a force of nature.

But here, now, when he's got his hands sliding down my sides and his tongue thick in my mouth, I don't care.

II.

"We'll strengthen the wards," he says when I wake up. He's sitting by the window smoking what really can't be less than his third cigarette of the day. "We'll strengthen the wards and then no one will get hurt."

Right. Sure. Okay.

The reason he didn't strengthen the damn wards before is this: He couldn't. I say, "That's a load of shite."

"Do you remember," he drawls, taking a slow drag and letting the smoke run out his mouth like his soul escaping. "When I told you that this place was too big to handle on my own?"

"No," I say.

He rolls his eyes. Severus Snape, mass murderer, former Death Eater, the man who gave the entire Ministry of Magic the slip, rolls his eyes like a bratty teenage girl and flicks his ash onto the windowsill. He shoots me a reckless smile, nothing but the quick upturn of the edges of his mouth and crinkle around the skin of his eyelids. I think it looks honest, but I've been mistaken about these things before.

"Since you're staying," he says, and it closes the issue. "You can help me with the wards. We'll link our magic and throw a shield up around the manor, like the ones around Hogwarts. Anyone looking for either of us, or even just passing through, will find themselves passing through a completely different landscape. We'll…we'll exist on another plane."

_Another world_, I think. But I nod, and I'm okay with the escapism. Really, I am. After seeing this world and the people inside it I'm ready to try something new. We'll forge our own world; population two and some house elves. And Ron, and Seamus, and Sirius and Remus Lupin will move on, keeping just afloat on the surface of that other reality. And they will be as dreams remembered from a long sleep, or characters from a favourite book. Nothing more than shadows at the edges of my mind.

I'm ready to start forgetting.

I suppose I'm expecting that they'll be some ceremony to accompany this grand magical blend. I'm anticipating mingling blood and a foul smelling potion and an unexpected rush of passion as we stand on the roof under a stormy sky and intermix our essence with only the wind to witness. So I'm taken off guard when he grabs my hand, pressing his calloused thumb to the center of my palm (my fingers curling around his) and murmurs a swift incantation in Greek. There's a tingle - the warmth of a spell taking place - and then it just stops and he sits back, smugly satisfied with my flabbergasted face.

"No need for fancy showmanship, Potter," he smirks, and then leans in to brush a kiss against my jaw. "Welcome to the new world."

The new world involves a lot of tanning. For me, anyway. For Severus it involves a good deal of sun-block and aloe vera. But after the first episode of raw red skin and peeling he looks like an entirely new person. He looks - heaven help us! - like someone with skin pigment. And of course, he shoots me a playful sneer when I point this fact out, and then wrestles me to the grass and tickles my sides until I'm screaming for mercy.

Things like that happen now. I wouldn't have expected a playful side to either of us, but there you go. I'm lying out on the front lawn in a pair of shorts, soaking up the sun and a strawberry daiquiri, when something cold and wet explodes against my back.

"What the fuck!" I exclaim, jumping up and whipping around to see him doubled over, a spare water balloon cradled in his hand. I can feel my eyes narrow, and, with a swift concentration of magic, the latex snaps and Severus stops laughing, staring at me with a shocked expression as his hair drips. I smirk.

The next thing I know he's launched himself at me, sending us both sprawling back onto the grass. I land with an uncomfortable, "oof" and get the wind knocked out of me as he crashes down on top of me. For a second we recover. Then his hands have found the sensitive spots on my side again, and I've jerked up my knees to try and kick him off. It's a futile battle for both of us, and within minutes someone has instigated a long, slow kiss that's as wet as his soaking t-shirt. His hands are pressed against my hips, holding me down, keeping me in place as he slides along me. An easy truce found here in the grass, under the brave new sky as we couple for the hundredth time.

We don't talk about the dead Muggle anymore, but the memory hangs over the manor like a ghost. Standing in the garden I find myself wondering if I'm standing on bones. How many murders took place in this house I've made home? How many Malfoys are decaying under floorboards? How many shallow graves have fertilized the flowers in this eternal spring?

Severus - if he knows - says nothing about it. The manor's history is rich, I know. I have explored its rooms, now and then. Photographs from the first war are not the only relics it has to offer. Portraits of the Malfoys throughout the years are crammed into the attic, sacrificed to Severus' sense of interior décor. There are books - written in French - that detail the lives and deaths of the manor's former owners. I can make out words here and there, and names that sound half familiar. There are albums of photographs that predate the first war collections. One shows a smiling blonde flapper dancing wildly, a petulant looking child standing by. He looks like Draco might have at that age, but with sharper cheekbones and eyes a darker shade of silver.

There are mysteries in the house that crumble under my curious fingers. There are mysteries in Severus as well, and in myself. I cannot understand, at times, my willingness to abandon my old life. But, even as I think it, I realise that my memories are washed out, sun bleached. The pains and joys of my previous existence feel hollow and dull. I remember names and faces, but the connotations are gone. The meaning behind the facts - if there ever was any - has been scooped away.

And every night I'm moving further away. Curled around Severus, fingers twisting in his dark hair, I can just barely conjure the memory of nights I spent in a similar position, twining my hand in hair of a similar shade. My mind forms the name "Alarbus" and throws an image of a smiling man with deep brown eyes. I can even remember the sting of his hand on my cheek once, after a fight. But there's no emotion invoked by the memory, and I slide into the present again, washed clean of a past that's been haunting me.

It occurs to me, now and then, that if I start to dig I will unearth the secrets I want. A few feet down I'm sure I'd find the telling white of a jawbone, a femur, a forearm. Maybe a clump of blonde hair still hangs from the grinning skull. And imagine the stories it could tell, in its creaking clattering lipless voice. The old parties of Malfoy Manor - the days of grandeur and pureblood extravagance. Days I would suddenly kill to have back. I can imagine the dark suits, the women like dusty photographs and old film stars sliding from the garden to the staircase, the guests with champagne flutes grasped lightly in their laughing fingers. I want to be a part of it.

But such thoughts drift away, evaporating as easily as dew from the grass in the garden.

I find Severus reclining on the settee in the living room, a cigarette dangling from his fingers and his eyes half closed. It's noon and the sun is streaming through the window and reflecting in the black gloss of his hair. This is a dream - or this is not a dream. It's gotten so much harder to tell.

"You ought to stop smoking," I say, caught suddenly in the weight of his black gaze. "I stopped with the coffee."

"You ought to stop sleeping," he says. "It only wastes time."

We get stuck in arguments like this, where I make sense and he doesn't. And they end with us tangled and twisted, his hands on my hips and my hands in his hair until we are one person. Our skin growing into each other. He curls around me like a vine and I forget a little more of what I've left behind. His mouth opens mine and sucks out the pain and the memories I gained in another life. His fingers pull the confessions from me, unbidden, and he offers his singular brand of absolution.

Forgetfulness.

Contentment.

I say, "You ought to stop smoking," but I think I've forgotten why that is. Cancer can't affect him here, anymore than the past can affect me. And if his fingers are stained and his mouth tastes like smoke it's nothing I can't forget I don't really approve of. The grey curls of vapor from his lips are alluring, in their own specific way.

He says, "You ought to stop thinking," and that seems logical enough.

To say the letter comes as a surprise would be an understatement.

It's another day like any other, and I'm stumbling down the stairs at nine in the morning, hoping for breakfast and my daily cup of coffee. The silence in the dining room is, somehow, more oppressive than it has been in the past. Severus' back, turned to me, is all angles and rigid lines. The smell of his cigarette is at once comforting and worrying; he never smokes at breakfast.

"What's wrong?" I ask, but I know before the words have left my mouth. I've been dreading this since day one. Another intrusion. And this time it's not something he can wash off his hands. The envelope on the table hasn't been opened; my name is written across the back in dark red ink, the "H" shaky and the "R's" running together. Alarbus.

It feels heavier than it should, when I pick it up. Just paper and ink. Paper and wax and ink. I break the seal and take it out, catching the forgotten scent of him, before forgetting again. And I read:

"Harry - "

"Don't," Snape says, turning for the first time. "Don't read it to me."

_Harry, when you left I realised what an idiot I'd been. I wanted to tell you - but I was so upset. Looking down from our window I could see you on the street, dejected and defeated and I wanted to tell you I still love you. I still need you. I always have. And this, whatever it is, this problem between us is only a temporary thing. It cannot last, when I feel that I am a part of you. You are a part of me. _

_I went to see Ron the next morning, but he said he hadn't seen you. You hadn't been to him or told him about anything. Likewise with Seamus. And when you didn't come to work and Abernathy said you were probably taking a much-needed vacation I started to worry. _

_Now it's been over a month and a half since you walked out of my life and into thin air. I still miss you. I want you back. I don't know if this letter will find you - I spelled it to reach you wherever you are. I get so angry sometimes! You left without a word. I know we were fighting, but didn't I deserve to know where you were going? Are you okay? I wish Abernathy would get his head out of his arse and look for you! If he won't…maybe I will. _

_Please write to me. I need to see you again, if only to hear from your own lips that you don't love me. That you maybe never did. What we had between us was magic more real than the waving of wands or the slaying of dragons. And I'd give anything to have that back._

_Yours always, Alarbus. _

III.

After that there are newspapers. They arrive almost daily, these reminders of the world I thought I'd succeeded from. Articles about the Ministry opening a search are highlighted. Pages with my name are dog-eared. That Alarbus is heading the attempts to find me does not escape my notice.

The dates on the papers alarm me. Have I really been gone so long? It feels like it's only been days, but the weeks drag on and the months march by and April gives way to June and June surrenders to July and I wonder what happened to May.

So far no one has mentioned Severus. I bite my nails waiting for the day his name appears, and I up my coffee ration just the slightest bit. He's smoking more than can be healthy, even here. Sitting by the dining room table where the letters and papers are forming a tower that threatens to collapse and cover us both, he silently inhales and blows a smoke ring with lazy concern.

"We could move," I offer, nervously unable to think of anything else to say.

Puff of smoke. "Where would we go? It's safe here."

"But the letters…" I flounder. "If they can reach us…"

"Letters are not people, Harry," crushing the tobacco into an ashtray and reaching for the pack with nicotine stained fingers, "No one can get through those wards as long as we're both here."

"But what if they do? They must know where we are in order to send these things."

"No," he says, striking a match with finality. "They do not."

_Harry,_

_Please, please, please write to me. Your friends are panicked. I'm panicked. We miss you. We want to know where you went. Just tell us you're okay and we'll never bother you again; I swear! We'll never barge in on you, or try to change your life. We just have to know that you're all right. I have to know. Because I can't let you go, knowing you might need me. _

_Please answer me. If you can. If you can't, I'll keep looking. Don't worry, Harry, we'll find you. Wherever you are. _

_Love,_

_Alarbus._

_H – _

_What the fuck do you think you're doing? We need you here, at home. Al has taken up your old habit; I haven't seen him without a mug of coffee in three days. Sirius was in town the other day asking about you, but he's vanished now, and no one seems able to find him or Professor Lupin. Just like you. Except the rumor is that _they_ are actually doing something constructive; looking for you!_

_Please write back,_

_-Ron_

_Severus,_

_In English, for your sake, and Harry's, I will make my request. I have to see you again; I've fallen upon trouble. What sort of mischief it is cannot be placed in this letter. I sent it using the talisman you left me. Please come. I am in Paris. _

_My love to you and the boy,_

_Arrienette_

"Talisman." He blows smoke through his nostrils and contemplates me coolly. "How did you neglect to tell me anything about this talisman?"

"You're angry," he states. No fucking duh. "That is illogical. What would I have said about the talisman? What would have been the point?"

"You would have told me what it does, for one thing," I grit, pacing the floor before his chair restlessly. "You might also have mentioned _why_ you gave it to her."

He shrugs, the graceful movement of his shoulders creating a faint _swish_ of fabric. "Easily answered. When we parted we did so as friends. I had things that I wanted to do, and she had a life to get on with. I set her up with some cash and a condo in Nice. Just in case she were ever in need of my help, as it is now evident she is, I left her with a talisman. It works a little like a portkey. Basically, it allows a connection between the two of us without allowing either party to be traced. She can contact me, since it requires no magic to be employed, but she cannot transport herself or anyone else to my current location."

That sounds like a thorough description and, after all, it's not that part that's bothering me. So I move on. "You're not going to go to her, are you?"

Again, that effortless shrug. "Harry…"

"No." I shake my head. "No, you've left me too many times before. If you go this place will fall apart. If you go you might not come back. If you go I'll be trapped here, and what am I to do?"

"Well, it's a nice house," Severus replies. "If I'm not back in a month or two you could release the wards and put it up for sale. They say this area is really a seller's market and with these hardwood floors the place could go for up to two million-"

"Shut up!" I scream. I'm almost amazed with the silence that follows, from both of us. "This isn't a game."

He reaches out and holds me now, pressing me against the smoke and lemon scent of his white cotton shirt. I release a shaky breath and try to deny the tears running down my face. And we stand. Silent.

And we sit on the lawn for the last time, with the sun just below the horizon and the light and the shadows making patterns through the leaves, like black lace or spider webs falling across our hands and faces. His skin is a darker colour than it used to be; not the same dark tan I've gotten, but something more exotic. I want to touch him, but there are his words between us and the weight of the future pulling him away.

There's nothing left of today, and tomorrow he'll be gone.

What is it like to wake up alone in an empty house? I have the feeling I've done it before. And the light that's quickly fading is suddenly colder than snow. Because tomorrow he'll be somewhere else, and I will sit here alone and drink my coffee alone and the letters will keep coming, with my name written in a hand that is not his.

I lost him before. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. Our relationship is just losses. I will write his name in blue ink across my heart and carve our initials on the trees in the garden. When he is gone. When he is not coming back. I will tell our story to the stones.

Eyes look your last, I think, but he says, "I'll be home in a week, maybe two." Arms, take your last embrace. He places one soft kiss on the corner of my mouth and stands up with a sigh. "Remember, Harry. Your safety comes first. Don't do anything stuipid."

Sure. Fine. Whatever. Stupid things are old hat by now. The stupidest thing I ever did is stepping through the wards and apparating to Paris. Goodbye, my favourite mistake. You know that I'll be waiting.

Beyond the wards he can't see me. I can't see him. But if I squint hard enough and tilt my head I can pretend I see a dark smudge like a stain staring ruefully back at me for just a second before – he's gone. More than not seeing, I _feel_ his magic leaving like a bandage being ripped off my skin. Times about a million. My scream follows me into darkness, escaping the pain, the sudden and unexpected physical pain, of separation.

When I wake up the wards are starting to decay.

IV

It's a slow process. His magic, my magic, keeping the place together, creating our new world, keeping out everything but those pesky little letters.

It doesn't work so well alone.


	3. Dirae

Schadenfreude Part Three

Dirae

"_Time lays his finger on thee, saying, 'Cease;_

_Here is no room for thee; go down to hell.'"_

_-Swinburne_

I.

I'm in the garden when it starts to rain. I'm smoking one of his cigarettes – one of half a pack I found in the pocket of the jacket he left behind – and he's been gone for three and a half days. I have to ration out the cigarettes, if I want them to last. I smoke them one half at a time, snuff them out, and finish them later. I smoke him down to the filter. Already I'm beginning to dread the day I run out of reminders of him.

The first drop of rain hits the back of my neck. It takes a moment to remember what rain is; summer really seemed it would last forever this time. Within minutes, however, the leaves and petals are dripping water onto the ground. I nearly slip, running toward the shelter of the house, noting the tear-tracks on the statues, the overflowing fountain, the chill in the air.

Inside it is calm. I sit on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chest and my face buried in my arms, and I breathe. Slowly. Remembering the steadiness of inhalation, exhalation, the rhythm of his heart. I most fervently regret the ruined cigarette still clutched in my vice-like fingers.

The rain keeps up for days. Days of grey skies, nights without stars. I start to wonder if it'll ever be like before. If he comes back. When he comes back. Can we bind this place back together? Can we make this place home? I walk in the garden, in the rain, in the cold, and I try to focus long enough to drive my magic up from my heart and into the sky, the air, saving this place before it's too late and it's gone, gone forever.

The sun doesn't rise, one morning, so I light a lantern I find in the kitchen and head up to the attic, wand in hand. There are boxes and journals and pictures and clothes. I've taken to wearing the black suit jacket with the hissing silver serpent buttons. I don't talk back, but I've gotten better at listening.

If I listen well enough, I find I can hear them tell stories about their old owners. They know the family history. They know all sorts of things. The pictures have names and legends that go with them.

"Poor ssssweet boy," hisses the top button as I lift a fading photograph. It's the gloomy looking blond boy with the flapper. "Little Julian."

"Yessss," says the another button. "Poor dear. I remember hissss dear mother, Margaret, ussssed to love to dansssssssse. Alwaysssss flapping her armsssss and ssssssssmiling."

"Maggie, yesssssss," hisses the first button again. "But she should never have been a mother."

"Margaret Malfoy never wanted to be one in the firssst plassssssse," retorts the second button. "What she did wasss an act of vengeanssssse for her sssssissssster."

"What she did wassss unforgivable." I think of curses. "To kill a ssssson and feed him to hissss father? What rape could exxxxcussssssssse it?"

I can piece together most of the stories, most of the things that got left off our magical history exams. They're frightful things, about sisters being raped and avenged in the blood of their rapist's sons, and things that feel dark, and dirty, and dank. Things that push and worm their way down to the roots of my imagination and take hold.

_It's a dream I haven't had in a while now. I am seventeen. I do not want to be here. I am seventeen and I am going to detention and Snape says, "Alphabetically by Latin name." But the jars have names I don't recognize on them. Names like Julian, Margaret, Draco, Lucius, and Narcissa. Names like Severus. Harry. _

"_Don't drop anything. Don't mess up." Snape is Snape again, and I am mumbling hexes too low to take affect, and the jars are lined up like a row of judges. _

_I drop the jar marked Severus and the ghost of his smirk flashes quick before my eyes, the cocky twist of his mouth, the glint in the black of his eyes like polished pebbles. _

_And then it all goes straight to hell. _

When I wake up my face is pressed against the spread out photographs, and the buttons on my jacket are emitting hissing snores. The lantern is magic, so it's still shining brightly, but there's light coming from the small square window and it's daylight now.

The letters from Alarbus contain increasing frenzy. Where am I? Am I alright? Have I run away or something more sinister? Were we ever really in love? Do I think we are still meant to be? With questions like this appearing in crisp envelopes on my dining room table three times a day is it any wonder I begin to shun lucidity?

I make one trip to the basement, remembering the _research_ Severus once conducted there. If he's set foot in it since then I can't tell. It smells wet and rotten, but I find enough sleeping drought to keep me under for at least eighteen hours at a time.

I play games, when I am awake. I play games and I imagine the people that might have played them before. This house was perfect when he left it. Now I notice little things, like dust collecting in the corners and the rain that never ceases, and I think about past glories and I think about Narcissa and I think about stopping. About walking into the garden and screaming at the sky and hearing _nothing_ in return. Just the fall of rain. Just the hiss of snakes.

I play games like I watch for the house elves. They've been trained to keep out of sight at all cost, and I summon one and follow him, tracking them through the labyrinthine corridors and back stairs. If they turn on me, with their big bright eyes, if they see me, and they must, they continue working. They pretend I am not here. If they know. Perhaps they don't. Years of ministry work has left me silent. I can follow. I can sneak.

And there's the day that I start to dig.

I don't know what I'm hoping to find. A sign, or a message, or proof. The Muggle salesman, perhaps. Whatever it is I've set out to excavate, it isn't something pleasant. So I shouldn't be shocked, I shouldn't be so scared, when my shovel hits bone. I really shouldn't, I really shouldn't, I shouldn't run into the house with my hand over my mouth, shouldn't feel my stomach turning over, shouldn't sob against my palm and close my eyes against the image of decay.

It puts a stop to my amateur archeology, anyway.

_I think I'm going crazy with only the sound of my voice. I'm very poor company these days. One is turning out to be something of a crowd. _

_I think I'm going crazy because I walk into the garden just as the sun is coming up. My feet are bare, their healthy tan faded to the same pale white as my cotton pants. Where I step the ground is soft and wet, and it gives under the pressure of my feet so that a trail of foot prints mark my progression from the door toward the fountain. I'm not sure, but I think there are small flowers blooming in the hollow places I'm leaving behind in the mud. _

_The fountain is running again and the sky is clear at last. But there's a smell, and there's something wrong. The closer I get the more distinctly I feel it; and then I notice the water is blackish red. It sticks to my pearl-white fingers when I dip them in, coating them like wax or syrup as I watch, transfixed more than horrified, and raise the dripping digits to my mouth. _

_Severus tastes sharp and sweet, like a lemon tart with cream. But there's that taste he leaves in the back of my throat that's not quite confectionary. That darkness he pushes into me, that grief and that pain and that _madness_ that pours out of him and touches me, taints me, and leaves me so full of him. His taste in my mouth. _

_He pulls away slowly. He says, "My bones have grown into yours," and presses his hands against my ribcage, the fingers of his right hand splayed over the place where my heart should be. "Harry Potter…" And he reaches. Somehow. He reaches into me with that wide right hand, into the place where my heart should rightly be, and he pulls and twists and extracts – not without pain – one shining green apple, into which he applies his white teeth._

The Daily Prophet is lying on the dining room table. The steaming mug of coffee is my third this morning. The cigarette clenched between my fingers is the last in the carton, the last piece of him I can still reach out and hold.

_Last Living Death Eater Discovered in Paris_, reads the headline above a photograph of Severus snarling and twisting and thrashing against the three Aurors holding him in place. The one with dark curls and brown eyes, the one with a grim but triumphant sneer, keeps meeting my eyes and looking away, meeting my eyes and then –

He is not coming back. Is this rescue or revenge, Alarbus? Is this punishment or liberation?

I don't cry when I see the picture, read the article, open the lengthy letter written in Alarbus' hasty scrawl. But when the smoke stops rising and I realise that I've used up his last bloody cigarette I can't stop the flow of steady, silent tears that run down my cheeks and blot the ink on the page.

For some reason his capture makes not being found all the more important. I have to think of a plan to save him. They still don't know where I am or how to find me, and maybe the wards will hold long enough to let me figure out what I need to do next.

The wards…it's becoming more and more necessary to patrol the grounds, the edges of the protected area, where things are starting to crumble. Yes I'm caving from the outside in and I'm not sure why I can't keep things together a little better than this. A little better than leaking faucets and cloudy skies, falling leaves and the scent of burn and ash. I try to put my magic to work but the thoughts to form the spells slide out of my mind and I'm left hanging, hopeless, trying to wish myself back into order.

It feels worse at night.

So I start making rounds, walking the edges of the manor grounds in the dark with a wand in my hand. I start at the crack of twigs. I don't think I could kill anyone. I don't think I could hurt people the way Severus has. But if I have to, I might do something…I'm not sure what. The walking and watching make me feel better, a little, and I remember that this is what we used to do, around Hogwarts, what the teachers used to do and I would sneak along behind them till they sent me back to bed. I remember seeing Snape scowling at the howl of the wind, his dark eyes penetrating the gloom so that my breath almost ceased to issue. I try to copy his frown, the once proud sneer and the glint of his dark eyes, when mine are so hopelessly green.

_It is Christmas and I miss you and I wish you would come back. It is Christmas and I remember the way you showed up with your secrets and your good intentions, the way you were selfish, the way you were cruel. I remember when you stood at my door, and I miss you. I wish you would come back. _

_It is Christmas and the sky is dark and I remember your eyes and the way you smiled at me. The back seat of your car and the scent of your cigarettes. I remember things like I didn't before, like the way your thigh pressed against mine in bed. I remember the sound of your voice, and the smell of your skin, and the curve of your lips and the feel of your hands and the words that you said and the way that you laughed and the taste of your mouth and the sound of your bare feet coming down the hall. I remember. _

_I remember when we had time and Christmases and it rained some days and it was sunny on others. I remember dissimilarity. _

_You walk through the door and your feet are bare. Touch my face. You say. You say hello and then you suck my breath like a black cat. The black cat on the bed is a present you gave me, but not for Christmas._

_Christmas feels a long way away. _

I wake up on the patio and it's dark and cold and wet and miserable. I want a cup of coffee and my bed, and maybe in the morning I will feel a little sane. I'll feel better after a night of real sleep, well enough to stop this negative progression. But there's a sound that stops me, coming from around the corner, behind the trees.

Slow and stealthy like the moonlight sliding through the grass, I sneak low to the ground, lupine, vulpine, feline, perhaps until their voices are just audible, their whispers of something sinister unintelligible but sure. Not house elves.

My wand is in my hand, warm and damp in this chill night, and I have to do something. The sound of their conversation is almost lost beneath the thud of my blood in my ears. I have to do something. If the wards have been breached I'm vulnerable. If these are Aurors sent to find me they will find evidence within the manor, whether they see _me_ or not. But killing them will only bring more, unless I can manage to put the wards back in place tomorrow morning.

It could be Muggles. It could be anyone.

But I have to do something. In a second I've risen from my spot among the bushes and grass, wand in my outstretched hand and the curse on my lips. "Avada - "

Something heavy and solid crashes into me, sending me sprawling across the ground with it on top of me. I feel my ribs squeeze under the pressure, my leg twisting backwards at a painful angle. My fingers are numb from the cold, but I see my wand several feet away. The voices have risen and they are (familiar) getting closer. I struggle with the dark thing holding me down, frantic for my wand, my magic, my sanity…

"Harry," calm voice, dark and smooth like the scent of lemon and sugar. "Hold still."

Miraculously, I do. I stop struggling and go limp, breath still ragged like the edge of torn parchment. Above me the voice continues, but my face is smothered in dark fabric, in black jacket and the familiar scent of days and weeks and months curled on the lawn watching stars fall to earth.

I don't even know how long he's been gone.

"Harry?" It's another voice, one that holds relief and fear at a feverish pitch, the crack in a long mature voice, the spike of worry, of disbelief. "Harry, is that you? Get off of him, you bastard!"

The warm darkness is pulling away, and all my cries and protests cannot pull it back. I sob, a broken sound that catches in my throat. "Severus."

His face, and the smile that took so long to get used to, something proud and tender and a little bit dangerous. The smile panthers give their mates. Yeah, that smile. He's looking down at me with that smile, and he holds out his hand and I take it before a second can pass, let him pull me to my feet, into his arms, into the uncertain future and the wards going up all around us.

II.

"Honestly, Harry," he breathes against my ear. "You yell at me for doing in some hapless Muggle and then turn around and prepare to execute your family. Not that I wouldn't have appreciated it in the past, but I think I may have had a bad influence on you."

"Family?" The word comes out muffled by his shoulder, and I pull back enough to look around him and see Sirius and Lupin. And they don't look happy. Sirius looks damn near murderous, and it takes me a second glance to realise the only reason he _hasn't_ murdered someone is the immobilis charm Severus has cast on both of them. Lupin, if anything, looks more horrified than Sirius. Less homicidal, but definitely more disgusted.

For a moment no one says anything. Well, Severus and I say nothing. I suppose the charm is keeping Sirius and Lupin from doing much more than blinking malevolently in our direction. I'm not entirely sure what one says in a delicate social situation like this. You know, like when one has gone insane and one's lost homicidal maniac boyfriend has returned in time to stop one from killing one's godfather and one's godfather's frigid Catholic werewolf life partner. I wonder what Emily Post would have to say.

"Take the charm off," I finally decide. "Or, no. I just want them able to talk. And let's go inside."

"You do it," he replies, stepping away and standing behind me so I can keep looking at my immobilized friends. "You should be able to do something as small as that."

I sigh, because I'm tired and it's been a long month or two or three or four or I don't know how long he since he's been gone. But I know an argument won't get us too far right now, so I close my eyes and _concentrate_ for the first time in a long, long time. I think about the spells I want to use, about the words and the feeling of magic. And I can almost feel the dream-like quality that's been stuck to me the past few years falling away. I can _do_ this spell.

I open my eyes, ready to perform the incantations needed to get us all into the living room, light a fire, make our guests comfy, and summon something to drink. Only to realise that we're sitting in the living room, there's a fire crackling pleasantly, Sirius and Remus are stuck to their seats but otherwise restored, and Severus is sipping a steaming mug of cider and smiling at me demurely.

I think I need to lie down.

"Fuck, Harry," Sirius breathes. "What the hell?"

I blink. "What?"

"_What_?" He's incredulous, running both hands through his shaggy hair. There's a streak or two of grey that wasn't there before. "_What_? Are you fucking me? What? You _vanish_ into the sodding night, no one hears a damned word from you in months, and then it turns out you're slumming it in France wearing," he gives me a quick once over. "Is that Lucius Malfoy's suit?"

I smooth a hand over the pin striped ensemble. "How can you tell?"

He shakes his head. "This is going to take a lot of explaining. The Ministry won't like it."

"The Ministry can fuck themselves," I snap.

"They're worried about you. They're out there _looking_ high and low for your sorry arse and you're – what? What exactly _are _you doing?" Sirius glances at Severus uncertainly. "I hope to God the next words out of your mouth resemble 'chasing down the last living Death Eater' because, Merlin, Harry, if they aren't…"

"What then? You'll reprimand me? You'll invoke the thrice blessed image of my father to inspire appropriate regret in my wayward heart?" I sneer. "You don't really hold much sway here, glued to the couch as you are, and you don't have a great deal of my sympathy at the moment."

"I'm you're goddamn godfather," he hisses, shooting an agitated glance at Severus, who's watching us avidly from behind his cider.

"Since when?" I shoot back. "You weren't there till I was thirteen, and then you were in and out of my life so often it was worse than having no one to count on. Even when you were free spending time with me was just one of you whims. 'Nothing to do today; I think I'll call up that Potter kid and see if he wants to go out.' I _starved_ for every word you gave me, every smile you flashed my way. I would have died for you to treat me like your son.

"But I grew up, and in case you haven't noticed, we don't really know each other. I don't really need a father anymore. I've made some decisions in life you may not agree with, but I don't need your approval anymore than I need my father's. Your word, his word, mean nothing to me. Not anymore."

I stop to take a breath, and realise the attention of the entire room is trained on me. I quickly think back over everything I've said. It seems strange, but I suddenly realise it's all true. Sirius wasn't a real father figure to me, and neither was my dad. I didn't really _have_ a strong male presence. No wonder I turned out gay.

"Harry," it's the first time Lupin's spoken all evening, and his voice is as low and soothing as ever. "Maybe you should tell us what's going on."

"You two might want to get comfortable," Severus interjects, smiling pacifically and gesturing to the coffee table, which is instantly over run with cider and sandwiches. "This might take a while."

I leave nothing out. Sirius is less than pleased, overall, by my honesty. Especially those parts of my honesty pertaining to Severus, who's generosity and nonchalance as a host appears to be inversely proportionate to my godfather's blood pressure. Seeing an old enemy this worked up appears to have a remarkably soothing affect on him.

Lupin doesn't comment at all, I might add. He sits with tightly drawn lips and sips his cider. And let's Sirius go to pieces.

When I get to the part about the letters I glance at Severus. "You should probably take over," I say. "You still haven't told me how you got here."

Severus' cool falters for a second. "Oh that."

"Yes, oh that. How did you even get _caught_ in the first place? No one was even looking for you."

"Arienette's loyalty isn't quite what I'd hoped it was," he sighed, pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "She ran out of money and managed to contact the Ministry. Don't even ask me how; she's always been resourceful when the need arose. Rather than _ask_ me for the cash I could have readily provided, she decided to collect the bounty on my illustrious head. There's a reward for finding you, there's a reward for finding me. I have to say, I'm winning by a couple thousand galleons."

I snort. "You've been missing for the past ten years. I've been gone four months."

"You've been gone eight months, actually," he replies. "Tempus fugit, my dear. Anyway, I showed up at her apartment expecting to deal with any range of inane problems. And was promptly arrested. You'll be pleased to know, I took down three Aurors and one female Judas on my way out the door. And no, they weren't your friends this time."

"That's very kind of you."

"I try. I ended up in a French prison, awaiting trial. I decided _not_ to try and have this trial cancelled, as you might imagine. I hung around the jail for a bit, soaking up the atmosphere, all that kind of stuff. Your friend Alarbus paid me a visit," he sneers. I can't help feeling my heart quicken. "He offered me clemency in exchange for your whereabouts. Funny thing is, I could tell he was lying. I don't think he's actually authorized to offer clemency to anyone. I don't think homicide is even his division, is it Harry?"

"No," I breathe. "Did you kill him?"

He smirks. "No, I left that for you, darling. Your love yet lived when I stole his wand and escaped from my cell." He sits back in his chair with a satisfied gleam. "The rest, as they say, is history."

"And you actually let him touch you," Sirius sneers, blue eyes trained on Severus.

"Oh, Alarbus wasn't that bad when I saw him," Severus states, purposely misunderstanding the statement. "A little headstrong but he had a nice body."

"Harry, I could deal with your sexuality," Lupin begins.

I cut him off before he can continue. "Really? I must say, that's rather generous of you. Given that you're a faggot too." His flinch is painfully obvious. "Honestly, Lupin, I'm not asking you to _deal_ with anything here, and I never did. You and Sirius can do or not do whatever the hell you like, but this is my life and I'm not going to even pretend to live it by _your_ moral code."

"That's my boy," Severus says under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. It's disturbing, to say the least. How much have I taken from him over the past eight months? Cigarettes and silk shits, and a willingness to forgive the unforgivable.

"Be that as it may," Lupin replies tersely. "You have crossed a line here, whether you are willing to admit it or not. I'm not sure you understand; you are sleeping with the devil."

"I didn't know you thought so highly of me, Remus," Severus sneers.

"He's a murderer," Lupin continues, un-phased. "He's barely human."

"That's rich, coming from you," I spit before I can think. The colour drains from his already pale face, but I can't quite manage to regret my callousness. Sirius has gone red with anger.

"Harry James Potter," he growls. That middle name tactic is so second year. "Thank the gods your mother died before she could see this."

"I wouldn't be here if she hadn't," I reply, calmly reaching for my own mug of cider. "Listen, I'm tired. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in a month of two, so I'm going to turn in. You two are welcome to stay, but I'm afraid you won't be using any magic," Sirius opens his mouth to say something and I rush on. "No, actually, I _insist_, that you stay. Can't having you tell the Ministry where I am, can I? The house elves will show you two a room. Or rooms. Whichever." I'm running out of steam.

"The wards will disallow your magic," Severus stands, helping me to my feet. "_Finite Incantum._" It takes Sirius a second to realise he isn't glued to the sofa anymore. And then he's launched himself across the room and knocked over the coffee table, the arm chair, and my lover.

Luckily, Snape is a lot stronger than he looks. Sirius ends up on his stomach with his left arm crushed beneath his body and his right arm twisted back. Severus pants, grinning up at me. "I could break it," he offers.

"No, don't do that," I don't want anymore unnecessary violence tonight. "He _is_ my godfather."

Severus follows me up the stairs as Lupin goes to tend to Sirius. It's really been the strangest night. We don't speak as we change and crawl into bed, not touching. The darkness doesn't seem as oppressive with him here, but he still feels so far away.

"Oh, I almost forgot," I say, just as I'm about to fall asleep. "Thank you."

"Whatever for?"

"For Al," I say. "Thanks. And for…for stopping me tonight."

"Hush," he replies, drawing me close to his chest and tucking my head under his chin. "Go to sleep."

"We can't stay here," he says the next morning before we head down to meet our guests for breakfast. Guests, prisoners, same thing. There's another thing I've learned from him; I kidnap people.

"Would they be able to find us, with the wards up, even if we let Sirius go?"

"Maybe not at first," he admits. "But the canines wouldn't give up till they'd found a chink in the wards somewhere, a place your magic doesn't quite mesh with mine. So it's either keep them here and make ourselves a wacky foursome, or let them go and find somewhere new."

"Keeping them here can't possibly fuck them up any worse," I mutter.

"Language, darling," he kisses my cheek. "I'm not sure I could keep from your godfather long enough for his stay to become beneficial."

"You seemed pretty cool with him last night," I remark, turning my face to kiss his mouth chastely. "Doing your seductive evil thing."

"You do it better than I," he slides his hands around my waist, looking down into my eyes. "Maybe because you turn him on."

I snort. "That's sickening," I sneer. "He's practically my father."

"And your father is practically some guy you never met," he retorts, which is a good point.

"I still think you're being gross," I reply, standing on my toes to kiss him. "That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard."

"I'm _so_ glad you feel that way."

Sirius is sitting at the dining room table alone when we come down. He's recovered enough of himself to be hungry, I see, as he tucks into an omelet. "Hey," I say, sitting down and reaching for the coffee. "Where's Lupin?"

"He was a little put out," Sirius says around a full mouth, then swallows. "Couldn't get him out of his room."

So they _did_ opt for separate rooms. That's interesting. Severus says nothing, but lights a cigarette and, without a word, passes the pack to me. Coffee and cigarettes. How seedy.

"Could I get one of those," Sirius asks and musters a weak grin when I hand him a fag. "Gave 'em up once before, I suppose there's no harm in doing it again."

I let half a cigarette pass before breaking the not-quite-comfortable silence that's settled over our meal. "You seem considerably more pleasant this morning," I say, and then wince. My social skills haven't gained much in the past eight months, not that they were much to brag about before.

Sirius doesn't remark upon my tone, however. He chews contemplatively and nods. "Yeah, I guess, I'd like to start over." He lays his fork down gently beside his plate and retrieves his cigarette from the ash tray it's been smoldering in. "We're in a bit of a position here, and I don't think screaming about it is going to fix things. I'd like to talk to you alone later," he shoots Severus a brief look about as warm as the North Pole. "If you're interested."

"Sure," I reply. "Yeah. Okay. After breakfast."

"What about Mister Lupin?" Severus arches a brow. "Will your lupine companion be undergoing a similar change of heart in the near future, or should I have the house elves deliver his meals?"

"Remus'll come round," Sirius blows a thin trail of smoke from his nostrils and closes his eyes for a second. He looks like he's communing with God, like the chemicals hitting receptors in his brain is enough to incite orgasm. "I think I'm going to get some fresh air," he says a second later, crushing the cigarette out and rising. "Don't worry, I won't make a break for it."

"You wouldn't get very far," Severus agrees. "Since the wards would disembowel you."

Sirius glares at him before leaving the room. "I didn't know the wards disemboweled people," I remark, off hand.

"They don't," he says.

"I thought we might have that chat now," I smile, stepping around the azaleas. Sirius looks up with a grin. I can't help thinking, if he doesn't leave, it might be nice to get to know him.

"Yeah, that would be great," he replies, scooting over on the stone bench to make room for me. "I just want to ask you a couple questions to start with."

"Shoot," I say, plopping down next to him.

"Well, first of all," he sighs. "Are you happy here?"

I blink. "I wouldn't stay if I wasn't."

"You say that, but sometimes we do things because we think they're what we want, Harry. I'm not trying to criticize you. I just want you to admit I might know a little more about it than you do. Are you happy here?"

I clench my hands into fists at my sides. "I was," I say. "Till the letters…and then I was again until Severus left…and now I'm happy to have him back. I'm happy here. Happier than I was with Alarbus."

"Okay, okay, don't get upset," he rushes on. "You _do_ realise Snape's a murderer, right?"

"I-"

"I mean, that might _seem_ really exciting, sleeping with a convicted criminal…"

"Is that how you get laid?" I sneer, and then regret it when I remember the circumstances; Sirius' sudden, almost imperceptible wince. "Sirius, look-"

"No, no, it's okay," he interrupts. "I understand. You've been living here for almost a year now. It's to be expected."

"_What's_ to be expected?" I snap.

"Well, that you'd be a little…confused. Don't get me wrong, I think what you're feeling – happiness, love, whatever – I think it's real to you. But you have to realise that you're living in an unstable environment based entirely upon keeping yourself as far removed from reality as possible. You're living a lie, basically," he grins, feebly. "Listen, it's not your fault."

"It's not his," I growl. "I'm choosing to stay here."

"Did you choose to come in the first place?" He raises an eyebrow at my silence. "If he'd asked, what would you have said?"

"I wouldn't have said much," I shoot back. "If he'd taken the time to ask I'd be dead." I snort at his confused expression. "After Al kicked me out I got a little bit too drunk for my own good. Depression goes poorly with alcohol, and I don't know. I got it in my head that it would be a good idea to kill myself or something maudlin like that."

"Oh, Harry, no," he reaches out to put an arm around me. I swat it away.

"Stop it. I was _drunk_. I was angry and drunk and I didn't know what I was doing. And one of the things I love about Severus is he doesn't try to _talk_ about it. He doesn't try to fix me; I just come back together on my own around him. I'm happy here. I want to be here. He hasn't kidnapped me."

"Listen," Sirius frowns. "I understand that you might think that but he's got ways of influencing people, even people as strong as you."

"He hasn't influenced me!" I'm on my feet before I realise I've moved. Sirius blinks up at me. "He hasn't brainwashed me, Sirius, fuck! I thought you wanted to _talk_ about this, not lecture me. You don't even know what you're talking about. I love him, and I don't need your advice about that."

"That's some fucked up love, Harry," his voice is stern. "The man killed your best friend."

"Yeah, well, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not base my love life on the wisdom of a man willing to stay with a frigid Catholic werewolf."

Sirius hits me. He actually _hits _me. I stagger backwards, my hand pressed over my right eye, as he grinds his teeth together, his fist hanging heavily at his side. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he spits. "You talk about love, but you don't know the first thing about love. Love is about making sacrifices, not running away from the real world. Love is about finding someone you care about, and someone who cares about you, someone you want to spend the rest of your life with on any terms."

"There are _limits_!" I shriek, grateful for silencing charms. "You're not his slave! He shouldn't be allowed to make you feel the way you do! Don't lie to me Sirius, I've _seen_ the way you look at him. The way he shrinks away from you. It's not a sin, if there's any such thing as sin to begin with, and you deserve more than that. Everyone deserves more than guilt over things that aren't their fault."

"There are limits," he agrees. "And you're crossing all of them."

III.

"Mexico," I say, idly. "It wasn't too nice the last time we were there, but if we pitch in, get a little condo on the ocean, spring for a good blender…we could spend the rest of our lives drinking margaritas and tanning by the pool."

"As charming as that sounds," Severus smiles, "it's not a good idea. We've been there together before, and the Ministry has it on record. They'll look there once the puppies tell them who you're traveling with."

"Please don't call them that," I sigh.

"And I'm not sure the welcome mat of Latin America is extended to us," he continues without pause. "I know Santiago would be none too pleased to see us again."

"Point," I concede. "But we need to get off this continent. I fancy Asia; what do you think? Tokyo?"

"Interesting," he smirks. "Can you speak Japanese now?"

"Um…" Funny how I just assume he does. I have to remind myself he doesn't know everything. "Okay, so maybe we could go to Australia. That's not _that_ far."

He snorts. "I don't know about you, Crocodile Potter, but I'll take my chances in civilization."

"Oh come on!" I punch him lightly on the arm. "It's not all wilderness. You might like it. I hear it's nice."

"You were closer with Tokyo, dear."

"Fine." I fold my arms. "What's _your_ suggestion then?" Outer space?

"Northern America."

"We've been there before, too," I point out.

"We've been to one obscure island. There's a lot of North America. We wouldn't even have to be in the United States."

"No, I want to go somewhere new," I whine. "Let's go to Hawaii."

"That's technically not somewhere new."

"It's not continental," I retort. "Hawaii or Australia."

He sighs dramatically. "Why do I put up with you? You're more trouble than you're worth. I should just dump you on the Ministry's doorstep and take off for Bermuda."

I smack him playfully. "Why is everyone's first impulse to leave me on a doorstep?"

"It should tell you something about your personality," he chortles. "But, since I'm stuck with you, I'll take Hawaii."

"Oh goody," I sigh. "I wonder if they do virgin sacrifices to volcano gods. That could be exciting."

"Yes, and fortunately, you don't qualify as a sacrifice."

"You were looking out for my best interests, then."

"Oh, from the very beginning," he places a hand over his heart and attempts to look sincere. "Could you doubt it for a moment, my love?"

I snicker. "Shut up," I say, and kiss him before he can think of a wittier reply.

Lupin is harder to spot than a house elf. Severus' joke about sending meals to his room is a little less laughable now that everyone's favourite werewolf has decided the moral high ground involves not tasting the food of the enemies. When Severus mentions in passing that Lupin might prefer the Malfoy dungeon I can see the vein in Sirius' head start to throb. He's not exactly social either, but he shows up to meals and wanders around the grounds. Lupin might as well not be here at all.

Which is why I'm surprised when, one afternoon as I'm laying on the lawn reading, I hear his soft voice say my name. He looks a little worse for the past couple…my mind blanks abruptly. Days, I think. I decide to ask Severus for a calendar for Christmas, if we can ever figure out when Christmas is again.

"Hey," I greet him, rolling onto my back and looking up at him. He's got the stubble and blood shot eyes look going on. Very chic. "Do you, uh, need something?"

"I'd like to talk to you," he replies, face grave.

"Grab a chair," I grin and he sinks to the ground, folding his legs beneath him. "What's on your mind?"

"I won't lie to you, Harry," he says, not looking at me but at the grass. "When you took Sirius and me captive I felt betrayed. Obviously I understand things a little better now, having spoken with Sirius." Somehow, this isn't filling me with warm and fuzzy feelings. He takes a deep breath and meets my gaze. "I think we need to talk."

It feels like someone's reached into my chest and taken my heart in their hand. "We are talking," I whisper.

"You're a good person, Harry. You're smart and kind and you've done a lot for the world. I'll admit I sometimes don't understand what you're doing with your life, but you do care about other people, and I know you would hate to see anyone in pain. Now, from what you've told Sirius and I, you were going through a very hard time eight months ago. Believe me, Harry, that's something I can sympathize with." Now that he's looking at me I find it _impossible_ to look away. His eyes are almost hypnotic. This is probably what mice feel like right before they get crushed by boa constrictors. It doesn't feel nice, in case you haven't guessed. "I've gone through some pretty bad times myself. People would say that there's a difference between lycanthropy and love, but it's not that dissimilar. Anything that makes you feel helpless, anything that puts you in a dark place, believe me Harry, _I can sympathise_…

"What you have to realise is that things aren't going to get easier just because you run away from one bad situation. If anything, they'll get worse. Right now you're happy, but think, if things go wrong here where can you go? This is the ultimate out, Harry. You can't come back from this. Once the world learns that you've left them _willingly_, that you're with him _willingly,_ they'll never take you back. When things ended with Alarbus you could run off with Snape. But if things go wrong with Snape there's no one left to run to and nowhere left to run.

"And death…Harry, it's not the answer. It's a permanent solution to a temporary problem, just like this is a temporary solution to a permanent problem. You're in a dark place, Harry, and it's okay to feel confused. You're been through a lot. But there's an easier way.

"People don't like hearing about it these days, but welcoming God into your life can help a lot. It can make all the difference. No, don't look at me like that, listen. You're alone right now, and that's no way to go through life. You, Snape, Sirius…all of you are alone. And I look at you and I don't feel anger, or hatred, but pity. If you'd only open your heart to the Lord, Harry things could be so much better for you!"

I try to smile. "I suppose this is the part where you tell me I'm on the path to Hell and I've given in to sin and debauchery, right?"

If I'm expecting him to laugh then I'm sorely disappointed when he smiles sadly back at me and says, "Harry, surely you don't think I'd judge you? But I'm asking you to look at what you're agreeing to by living with Snape, by sharing his bed. If you want to turn your life over to God and be welcomed into his peace you're going to need to examine your lifestyle."

"I don't remember saying I wanted to turn my life over to anyone," I mutter. "Listen, Lupin," I say in a clearer voice. "I appreciate your faith, but it isn't mine. And in fact, you know what, I don't appreciate your faith that much. You talk about how we're alone, well, I'm _not_ alone. Snape's _not_ alone. We're together, and that's the opposite of alone. Sirius may be alone, but why do you think that is? He tries so _hard_ for you and you keep blocking him out! He loves you. He's _willing_ to make sacrifices to be with you, if you'd let him. I haven't spoken much to you guys in the past years, but I've seen enough to know he's not happy, and neither are you.

"Maybe it says somewhere that what Severus and I have is a sin. And maybe there is a God and he's fucking pissed at us. But I'm willing to take that chance, because he makes me happy and I don't think God would want me to be miserable. What would be the sense in that?

"I can respect your views, okay? And so can Sirius, even though I think he's insane to even bother trying when you shove him away like this. He doesn't need you to commit horrible sins against the Lord with him," I snort, trying very hard not to form a mental image of that. "But you have to love him. You're killing him. You don't feel hatred or anger or rage or love, just pity. Your pity isn't getting anyone anywhere."

"Harry, he's a killer," Lupin blurts before silence can settle between us again. "He's a cold blooded killer. He's a serpent. He's evil."

"Oh, now, Remus," I say soothingly. "You _know_ he didn't really kill Peter Pettigrew."

"This _isn't_ a joke, Harry, this is about your soul. I don't worry about Snape's; I'm not sure he has one. But you're good, and pure, and for all that you are so easily led astray. What's he done since you knew him? How many people as he killed – that you know of – since you met him seventeen years ago? Because he killed just as many before you met. And you ask if he regrets even one of those deaths! He doesn't feel remorse, the way a normal person would, he doesn't feel sorrow at the pain of another the way you or I would. He's a sadist, a psychological sadist. He doesn't just enjoy someone's misery, Harry, he _thrives_ on it."

"Silly me," I sigh. "I thought you were going to be judgmental. My, you've proven me wrong. Where do I sign up for God's love, again?"

"You're making a mistake," his eyes narrow. "I don't mind telling you that if you let this chance go there might not be another one."

"Gosh, that would be tragic. Listen, I promise that wherever Severus and I settle down we'll find a local church and attend Sunday mass, okay? Who knows, maybe we'll even start going to church socials and serving tea after service."

"You're joking," he observes. My but that Remus Lupin is astute! "But it's not a joke. You couldn't save your soul with empty words and church socials, Harry. The rituals mean nothing if you don't live with God's law day by day."

"Are you Catholic or insane?" I sigh. "Don't answer that. Whatever you say is sure to be something sanctimonious and uninteresting." This little conversation has just about lost my attention. "I'm going inside. Most likely I will track down my soulless satanic lover and we will commit gross acts of indecency which will include, but are not limited to, snogging, holding hands, and staring wistfully into each other's hell-bound eyes. If you need me I'll be in the living room."

"You'll live to regret this!" he yells at my back. "Even if it's only on your death bed, Harry, you'll see the error of your ways and it'll kill you!"

"If I'm on my death bed when it happens at least I'll already be nine tenths of the way there," I retort optimistically over my shoulder.

Our bags are packed. Well, that's a metaphor, because we don't have bags. We figure we'll buy or conjure anything we need. But everything else is in order. The wards are set to stay in place, at least to some degree, for another year. This place won't technically exist for twelve months after we live it, and after that it'll start reappearing in bits and pieces. Like Avalon, I suppose, but backwards. Instead of vanishing slowly into the mist Malfoy Manor will emerge, turret by turret.

The house elves have orders to take care of Galatea. Sirius and Lupin have no idea we're leaving in the morning. Severus suggested we just take off and let them stay here – with no one but _themselves_ – until they get so desperate they risk disembowelment in an attempt to escape their own odious company. I'm planning on leaving them a note saying their free to go.

Initially we worried about them tipping anyone off. "Harry Potter has vanished" still hasn't turned into "Harry Potter and Severus Snape were seen in Vegas tying the knot" and for simplicity's sake we'd like for it to stay that way. But then we realised that Sirius is too embarrassed to blab about this, and Lupin probably would, but his word doesn't mean a whole lot to the Wizarding World. Yes, in a strange way, I'm grateful for prejudice.

So tomorrow we're leaving, without our bags, and we're going to Hawaii, and we're never coming back. It's strange. When I got here he said it was home, and it has been. For the past God-knows-how-long this place has been a home to me, maybe the only real one I've ever had, and tomorrow I'm going to get up and leave it behind me.

Severus turns in early after a game of checkers. (I won!) Maybe I'm a little sad when I get up and go into the garden. Maybe I'm feeling a little unsure of where I'm going. The moonlight on the statues and flowers is beautiful, but then, it always is. Here the moon is always gibbous, never full. Which may contribute to why I can never tell what goddamn month it is, now that I think of it. But it was sort of romantic when I first noticed it. I don't know if he caused it or if I did, or if it just happened because we seceded from time and the world when the moon was almost full, but I like it. Things are always moving towards perfection, always approaching fulfillment but never quite finished. Cyclical time can be a real bitch sometimes.

I can only _imagine_ the hell it's putting Lupin through. Perpetual pre-moon-symptom? It certainly hasn't improved his mood much, if our little chat and the vindictive glares he shoots me are any indication. Oddly, I can only manage to feel bad for one person in the Sirius-Lupin duo, and it sure isn't Lupin.

As if summoned by my thoughts (and in this place I wouldn't rule that out) Sirius steps through the door, face tilted to the sky so I'm not sure if he's aware of me until he says, "Hey, Harry."

"Hey," I reply, dipping my fingers into the clear fountain and shaking the drops of water free again. "How's it going?"

"Well, apart from being held prisoner in a Death Eater mansion by my possessed godson, things are pretty shitty," he says, attempting a smile. "If we ever do get out of here, I think Remus is going to leave me."

That doesn't surprise me. "You deserve a lot more than he's giving you," I say, and I don't think it's the first time. "I should have told you years ago." Someone should have.

"That doesn't mean I want him to leave," he says, which is fair. "I've never actually been alone."

I think about what Lupin might say to that. About Sirius being alone now. But I remain silent, looking at the moon that hasn't quite reached its peak yet. Nothing comes to fruition here.

"Harry…" he takes a step closer to me, stops, and approaches again, cautiously. "You have to understand that he and I were very young when we fell in love."

"Okay." They must have been. I never really thought about them being together in school. That must have been hellish.

"And he wasn't always like this," Sirius continues in the same low voice, looking at me like I'm his last hope in the world, and making me understand will make any sort of difference. "We used to be happy. Normal."

"You ought to leave _him_," I point out. "Before he…you know. Before."

"Harry," he says again, and now he's close enough to reach out and hit if I wanted to. I'm not sure I don't want to. "Harry."

And then his hand is cupping the side of my face, holding me in place as he leans in to brush his lips against mine. _Maybe because you turn him on. _I pull back, quickly, brushing his touches away and stepping backwards, wide-eyed. He looks more lost than ever.

"I want something I can have," he says, his breath warm and moist on my lips. The air tastes like jasmine, his tongue tastes like ashes, and for a second it seems like this might maybe make sense, if only for the earnest longing in his eyes. I know it's for something I'm not.

"Want something else," are the last words I'll ever say to my godfather.__

AN: Hey everyone. Thank you for the reviews; I really enjoy them. I said on my lj that I'd have the third part up by the end of February and I kind of almost did. I don't know when the fourth part will be up, but it's coming, eventually, I promise. Anyway, I hope you like this. Me thinks I was reading a little more Aeschylus than was advisable when I wrote it, but whatever. 


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